


The 'Fuck You' Bouquet

by AbstractAutumn, necrodraconology



Series: Meadowsweet & Motor Oil [1]
Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 1990s Reddie Rights, Al and Leland are literally just 1990s Reddie with different names youre welcome, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, An Aggressive Amount of Chicago-specific References, Apparently Eddie is only capable of going to stores that have punny names, Beverly Marsh Knows Everything, Confident Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Gay Richie Tozier, Gearhead Eddie, If you drink every time they say 'fuck' you will die, M/M, Meet-Cute, Questioning Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, mentions of drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25197013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbstractAutumn/pseuds/AbstractAutumn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrodraconology/pseuds/necrodraconology
Summary: The hardwood begs for mercy as a short, very vexed looking man literally stomps up to the counter and slams a twenty down in front of Richie. His hair is dark and messy - like he tried to style it in the morning today, but Chicago’s humidity dashed that dream upon the rocks - and his brows are knit together in obvious frustration. He’s wearing blue jeans and a smudged white t-shirt, all smelling clearly of motor oil.“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?!”--Or: Eddie buys a bouquet to try and break up with his girlfriend. Richie falls in love.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: Meadowsweet & Motor Oil [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825345
Comments: 32
Kudos: 248





	The 'Fuck You' Bouquet

**Author's Note:**

> This entire story was inspired by a singular tumblr post and finished only because AbstractAutumn took the time to outline this whole thing and then beta the writing for me. It took weeks to finish because I don't know how to focus on one project at a time. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

On the corner of Damen and Division, tucked among all the coffee houses and bars and secondhand stores, there’s a quaint flower shop whose outside displays are being carted and carried indoors by a single employee as the day slowly winds to a close. It’s about a quarter ‘til eight, and the city is collectively grateful as the sun finally begins to fall in the west, breaking the daytime July heat spell the father down it goes. 

It’s too little too late, though. Richie already knows he sweats like a pig too fast (Always had, too. In school, he was the kid that was drenched in full-body sweat just five minutes into PE. It’s a curse he’s learned to live with); he huffs and puffs as he sets a heavy pot of full white chrysanthemums onto a sturdy table in the backroom, ceramic sliding against wood and then stilling as Richie lets out a sigh of relief and catches his breath. He really should stop smoking. It makes everything harder, makes him aware of his breathing in ways he doesn’t want to be at points in the day when he should really be focusing, which is hard enough for him to do without physical ailments. 

He dusts the dirt off of his hands onto the brown apron that’s protecting his rose-patterned shirt, then pulls out his phone to check the time. 7:53. There’s no point in closing the shop earlier than eight. Richie doesn’t mind stragglers. His apartment is right up above the shop - a sweet deal he’d landed by being in the right place at the right time. 

His family had moved to Chicago from Maine when Richie was starting his junior year of high school. Lane Tech was huge and completely different from a school in Derry; the hallwalls were cavernous, the classrooms were furnished recently with new computers and books instead of relying on relics of the past. The only downside was how easy it was to get swept up in the sea of everyone else. Making friends was difficult, so instead, to keep busy, he worked. He wandered around Rogers and Wicker Park with copies of his resume in hand, and one of the places hiring happened to be _Take It or Leaf It_ on Damen. He worked through his last two years of high school, and then worked some more in college. Once college didn’t work out, Al and Leland happened to be moving out of the apartment above their shop to a house nearby, and Richie was happy to take it. The rest is history.

The bell chimes as someone enters the shop, and Richie quickly pockets his phone as he steps out from the back. The hardwood begs for mercy as a short, very vexed looking man literally _stomps_ up to the counter and _slams_ a twenty down in front of Richie. His hair is dark and messy - like he tried to style it in the morning today, but Chicago’s humidity dashed that dream upon the rocks - and his brows are knit together in obvious frustration. He’s wearing blue jeans and a smudged white t-shirt, all smelling clearly of motor oil. 

“How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?!” Even his voice is intense, like he literally can’t help but be kind of yelling all the time.

He’s like something out of a dream. Richie stands stunned for a couple moments, then just laughs. Not big, and not to be mocking - he’s just been working in this shop for almost eight years, and he really hasn’t heard that one before. Nevertheless, it seems to set the shorter man off. His dark brow twitches, his face goes red, and his first curls around the twenty he just smacked down, crumpling it.

“I’m not _kidding_ , asshole.”

“I- sorry,” Richie reigns himself in, but his smile is permanent. “That’s just new. Uh… gimme a minute, I got this.” 

He retreats to the backroom once more, then returns with a hefty, leatherbound book, and slams it down onto the counter with a heavy thud for dramatic effect. The customer blinks in surprise, and Richie smiles just a little wider. 

“So what does someone do to receive a Fuck You Bouquet?” he asks as he opens The Great Flower Tome (it’s not called that, and Leland really wishes Richie and Al would stop calling it that, but they won’t). 

The twenty is on the counter, smoothed out, and the stranger watches Richie’s hands. He looks distracted, distant. Richie tries not to read into it too much and focus on the task at hand, but it’s hard when he could otherwise be speculating the motivations of a man who looks like he inspired every Lana Del Rey song that actually matters. _Dammit_ , he thinks. _I’m gonna have that shit stuck in my head all week now._

“I’d, uh, rather not…” the man trails off, not nearly as boisterous as when he entered. Bashful, even. It gives Richie whiplash. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have called you an asshole. That was rude.”

“Seems like you were under duress, man. No harm done,” Richie looks up from the yellowing pages and over the rim of his glasses, which fall down his nose until he pushes them into place again. 

He grabs a blue highlighter from the register and runs the ink over the first option under C. _Carnations, yellow. Expression of disappointment._ “Any particular _kind_ of ‘fuck you’ we’re expressing here? We got a lot of options on the board - disappointment, stupidity, uselessness…”

“There are flowers used to express stupidity? There are stupid flowers?”

“I mean, I don’t think they can read or anything, if that’s what you’re asking. The venus flytraps are pretty cool, but I don’t think they put much thought into digesting bugs…” 

_Foxglove. Insincerity._ The smell of motor oil becomes thicker as the customer takes a tentative step forward and rests his forearms on the counter, watching where Richie highlights. He gives a small hum of what Richie assumes to be approval, and he makes a mental note to definitely include the foxgloves. He knows there’s some white ones in the back.

That’s twice the conversation derails when Richie tries to ask what the issue is, so he decides to drop it, and instead simply asks, “So you got a name, stranger?”

“Oh, um. Eddie,” he answers like he’s surprised anyone would ever want to know.

“Well, Eds-”

“Eddie.”

“Right. Eddie,” he highlights another one. _Geraniums. Stupidity._ Richie knows he’ll include that one just as a memento of their conversation, more for himself than anything. He looks up from the book and smiles as he holds a hand out. “I’m Richie.”

Eddie’s handshake is firm, calloused, and warm. Richie’s eyes trail up the tanned and freckled skin, arms covered in sparse dark hair leading up to sharp elbows and muscled biceps. Richie’s throat feels dry; he swallows hard as he retracts his hand and redirects his efforts back to the book and highlights the last one. _Lilies, orange. Hatred._

Then Richie closes the obnoxiously large Flower Tome and gives Eddie a thumbs up and a smile. “Alright, gimme a few minutes to put it together, Spaghetti Man.”

“What did you-” Eddie stops himself mid-sentence, shaking his head with an expression torn between confusion and a level of frustration, then tries again. “You just highlighted a bunch of stuff without writing it down…?” 

“Photographic memory,” Richie shrugs, casual. “We’re workin’ with white foxgloves, geraniums, orange lilies, and yellow carnations,” he adds just to quell any doubts the other may have. “I can tell you the meanings, but that doesn’t really seem like your style.”

Eddie lets out a soft huff of laughter and nods in agreement. “Not for these, no. Just a general fuck you is good.” And Richie does his best not to read into the fact that he didn’t say _not at all_ as he returns to the backroom to retrieve the flowers from the coolers along with supplies (floral tape, wire, foam, vase, etc.); he brings it all to the work table and gets busy clipping stems once he puts the image of the arrangement together in his head. 

Over the gentle metronome of the scissors going _snip, snip, snip_ through wet stems, Richie speaks loud enough that Eddie can hear him out by the counter. “So do you work on cars ‘round here or something?”

“Yeah, down at Dependable a little further south. The oil smell gave me away?” he can hear Eddie chuckle. “Sorry. I washed my hands well, I swear. The smell just sticks.”

“I like it,” Richie says quickly and without thinking. He covers his face with his right hand, not occupied by scissors. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

To his relief, Eddie laughs. “Yeah?” he asks with a playful lilt that makes Richie wish he was in the next room to see the accompanying expression. “You’re a florist. If we’re talking about jobs and their olfactory payoff, I think you’ve got me beat, dude.”

“Aw.. that’s the weirdest way I’ve ever been told I smell nice. Aren’t you a charmer?” Richie uses pot tape to secure the foam to the bottom of the simple, clear plastic vase (an expensive vase doesn’t feel right for a Fuck You Bouquet), then gets to work on reinforcing the foxgloves stems with wire to ensure they remain upright. “Also, I wouldn’t say I’m a _florist_. That’s a stretch. I just work here.”

“Ah. So reassuring coming from the man entrusted with arranging my flowers. Amazing,” Eddie deadpans, and Richie barks with laughter.

“That’s right. Just wandered in here and threw on an apron. Wanted to stock up on some sick selfies for the ‘Gram, ya know? It’s all about the aesthetic, bro,” he uses an accent that only vaguely sounds like a mimic of the West Coast. Eddie erupts with laughter, and Richie musters up every ounce of self-control to ensure his feet stay planted in front of the workbench. He uses the green floral tape to discreetly adhere the wire to the stems, then nestles the foxgloves tactfully into the foam.

Eddie’s laughter dies down, and it’s silent for a couple moments before his voice is a little closer - just outside the door, but not peaking into the room quite yet out of what Richie assumes to be some sort of social grace or respect, “Do you mind if I…? I-I mean, it’s just… You know. So we don’t have to yell?” he asks vaguely, but Richie understands.

“Make yourself comfy, Eduardo. There’s a chair at the desk there if you wanna sit down,” he offers and points out the old dark wood desk directly behind him at the opposite wall. Eddie accepts the invitation and takes a seat. Richie _swears_ he can feel Eddie’s gaze lingering heavy on his back as he works. It makes him feel both warm and unnerved in the same beat. 

“So…” Eddie is the one to start this time. It makes hope bubble up in Richie before he can suppress it. “Have you worked here long?”

He repeats the process of reinforcing the stems on the red geraniums next, then like the foxgloves, pierces the stem and wire into the foam to begin shaping the rest of the arrangement around the white flowers. “Gonna be eight years this September, I think,” he hums. “Al and Leland opened the place when I first transferred here during high school, junior year.”

“So you _are_ a florist. Eight years is a long time!”

Richie raises his hands in surrender and peaks over his shoulder, smiling. “You caught me. I’m a fully-fledged flower man. Your Fuck You Bouquet is in perfectly capable hands.”

Speaking of hands, Richie follows Eddie’s line of sight again, possibly staring at his hands, still raised up in surrender. Richie keeps them there for a moment, and watches as Eddie’s eyes track when he finally brings them back down to keep working. _Definitely staring._ It makes his chest swell with pride, fills him with a confidence he normally only gets when a joke works particularly well on stage. 

“You said you transferred here during high school?” Richie feels floored by the genuine interest in Eddie’s voice, like Richie’s life story is actually important and worth hearing about.

“Yeah, I’m from Maine originally. Little town called Derry,” Richie answers. “Dad’s a dentist, so when work moved, we moved with him.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Pfft, fuck no!” He actually has to set down the lilies and floral tape as he laughs. “It’s _cute_. Derry’s not the worst. But like, that’s like bringing an Amish kid into the real world-”

“I don’t know if that’s-”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re called mennonites and I shouldn’t call it the ‘real world’, blah blah blah,” Richie waves a dismissive hand. “My point is, that’s like giving someone electricity for the first time and then asking if they still wanna hang out on a farm with cows and oil lamps. Some folks might say yes, but I’m not one of ‘em.”

“Same here,” Eddie agrees. “I mean, I used to live in the western suburbs, which isn’t quite as remote as _Maine_ \- god, I’ve never even heard of Derry before…”

“Most people haven’t,” Richie is alternating between the geraniums, carnations, and lilies now, placing them with careful consideration in patches surrounding the foxgloves - the bouquet gets fuller and wider. He thinks idly about how funny it is that something so pretty carries such a rude meaning; he looks over his shoulder again, like a reflex, at Eddie, who’s got one leg crossed casually over the other, one arm draped over the back of the chair while the other rests on the desk. Simple and casual, looking as if he’d always been there, always listening contently and waiting for Richie to finish up for the day. “So what about you? You got sick of the burbs and came to be a city to stick it to the man?”

“Woman, really,” Eddie sighs, the levity in his tone gone. “My mom…” he picks his words carefully. “...is a lot. Overbearing. She’s got enough shitty preconceived notions about Chicago, though, so as long as I’m in the city, she’ll leave me alone. I told her I live on the South Side, and that’s kept her from even mentioning a visit.”

Richie whistles. “Coooold blooded, Eds-”

“ _Eddie._ ”

“Right,” Richie nods in agreement again whilst having zero intentions of ever actually stopping the heavy onslaught of nicknames; it’s not his fault Eddie has such quality rhymes and variations. 

He’s just about finished with the bouquet, sliding in the last three yellow carnations. The whole thing _definitely_ costs more than the wrinkled twenty still sitting out on the counter, but Richie’s willing to toss the extra money into the register from his own wallet once he crunches the numbers. This is worth it. 

“Ta-da~” He takes a step back and motions to the bouquet dramatically, wiggling his fingers for effect. It looks like a blooming flame at the end of a match - the red and orange fade into each other, and the carnations scattered along the outer part of the arrangement are like a warm yellow halo. 

Eddie stands up to walk over and inspect it closer, looking equally surprised and impressed. He just stares for a moment, taking it in as a whole before reaching out and running his fingers along one of the geranium petals thoughtfully. “It’s almost too pretty…”

“You _did_ ask for passive-aggressive,” Richie points out. His face hurts. Has he stopped smiling at all since Eddie walked in?

“Good point,” Eddie laughs, and now he’s leaning with his hip against the workbench while facing Richie, arms crossed. “Thank you. Really. These are really great.”

“I don’t know if ‘great’ is supposed to be used in reference to ‘fuck you’ flowers, but I’ll take it!” Richie beams. His phone vibrates in his back pocket, and he checks it quickly. It’s 8:09, and he has a text message from Al.

‘ _Just drove past the shop and saw the lights are still on - get some SLEEP, kid!! I’ll be there to crunch numbers in the morning.’_

“Shit…”

“Something wrong?”

“Closing time. Boss man told me to get a move on,” he admits against his better instincts. He wants to just lock the front doors and hang out here all night, sitting on the hardwood floor among the flowers, keeping their backs cool in the summer heat by leaning against the refrigerators. “Sorry,” he tacks on when he sees Eddie’s shoulders slump in what he assumes to be disappointment.

“Right! Right,” Eddie agrees but speaks like he’s trying to convince himself. He nods and grabs the flowers, holding the vase carefully at its base with another hand wrapped around the middle. They look beautiful in his hands - handsome and fiery, but also soft, maybe even gentle. Richie realizes he’s not even really thinking about the flowers at all - they’re just a tool to think about more Eddie.

There’s a heavy silence hanging over them now. Richie shifts in his spot uncomfortably, and so does Eddie. They both keep their eyes to the floor. Richie knows this is it; this is his last chance to bridge this gap before the opportunity is totally gone, but his throat is dry and the words die before they even reach his mouth when he looks up and Eddie is staring up at him with those big, brown Bambi eyes.

Eddie looks like he’s sitting on something he can’t say either. His brow knits in frustration that Richie knows, somehow, isn’t directed toward him. Then Eddie’s expression changes to realization - eyebrows raised, eyes worried, he asks, “What time is it?”

“8:09?” Richie answers, knowing it’s probably more like 8:11 now.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Eddie grabs the bouquet off the table and zips past him, making for the door. “God fucking dammit, Myra’s never gonna shut up if I’m late for another date - er, sorry! Thank you! These are really great, seriously!”

“Yeah, man,” Richie replies lamely. The name Myra sits sour on his own tongue. It comes off sour from Eddie’s too, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s still going on a date with her. _Another_ one. They’ve been together awhile. Richie folds and gives a half-hearted wave, then watches as Eddie bolts out the door, leaving only the sound of the chiming bell in his wake. 

_So much for that_ , Richie thinks, and finishes closing up for the night, dragging his feet the whole way.

* * *

At 8 PM, rush hour traffic in Chicago finally dissipates. It’s the one reason Eddie’s always been able to convince Myra that their dates should be after 8 o’ clock despite her own very structured lifestyle that usually requires her to fall asleep by 10 PM at the latest. Even better, too, since it meant she was usually tuckered out by the time they finished dinner or whatever movie they went to see - so much so that she wouldn’t even have the energy to complain, and the car was quiet enough when he drove her home that Eddie could almost pretend she wasn’t even there. 

He likes to tell himself that he didn’t choose the time on purpose, that it’s not an avoidance tactic. Then one of the lily petals from the bouquet sitting in his lap tickles his nose, and he remembers that the whole reason he’s running late is because he got his girlfriend flowers with the intention of telling her to fuck off.

So perhaps he has some issues in his relationship that he’s not addressing properly. But everyone has problems, right? No partner will ever be perfect, Eddie knows, and he’d never be the type to ask for perfection. Just understanding. Just to be listened to. Just to be accepted the way he is.

He wonders, though, as he cuts through the side streets coming from Division and barrels northward to Edgewater, speeding at a pace that would definitely set off traffic-cameras if he was driving through actual lights, if Myra ever offered _any_ of those things. Myra took him at face value and accepted the beginning template of Eddie, accepting that he may be something of a project - a man to change. He tries - he really does - but Eddie can’t recall a single time Myra wasn’t adjusting something on his person or telling him he looks too grumpy, too disheveled, too tired, too _Eddie._

Then he thinks about Richie, the florist with the big but detail-oriented hands and even bigger smile. Richie, who apparently likes the smell of motor oil. Richie, whose glasses magnify his eyes, which made Eddie feel like he was peering into his soul and smiling at what he found. 

Eddie pulls into a Walgreens parking lot just a block down from the Catulpa Gardens Condominium complex. His head doesn’t really _ache_ per se, but he rubs his temples anyway, as if that alone can combat cognitive dissonance. He sets the flowers aside ever-so-carefully in the passenger seat, then pops the trunk and steps out into the muggy Chicago night. It might rain later, but he isn’t quite sure - it’s always this humid, and with the sun down, it’s harder to track the clouds. 

He grabs a set of clothes, disinfectant wipes, deodorant, and cologne from the trunk, then enters the Walgreens and gives a small wave to Claudia at the counter. All of the employees at this Walgreens knew him. He comes in every Friday night to change and scrub his hands and arms down in their restrooms, hoping to god he can cover up the smell of engines and metal and oil that seems to stick to him perpetually. He changes quickly into a pair of black slacks and a simple slate-grey button down shirt, slathers on deodorant and cologne and hopes it’s enough.

Despite everything, he manages to get to Myra’s door at 8:30 sharp, and tentatively knocks three times, hoping, deep down, that maybe she won’t hear it and he can go home. 

Of course she hears it.

The door swings open, and Myra is standing there in a plain, navy dress, her blonde hair pinned up, wearing an expression somewhere between frustration and relief, never quite content, as always. As she opens her mouth to speak, Eddie shoves the bouquet into her hands then stuffs his own hands into his pockets, averting his eyes. 

“Oh, Eddie-bear, they’re beautiful!” she exclaims. The corner of his mouth twitches up into a half-smile. She just sees flowers, a common token of affection, and has no inkling as to what their true meaning is. It’s like an inside joke that only he knows about. 

Well, him and Richie, really. 

As she sets the vase down on the kitchen island, Eddie feels a small pang of regret. Vicious as their meanings are, the flowers are objectively beautiful. Beyond that, they were arranged by Richie, and that alone feels like enough to want to bring them back to his own apartment and appreciate them until they wilt, then maybe even save the dried petals once they bouquet’s officially seen better days. 

Instead, they’re here in the apartment of someone who’d never understand why a Fuck You Bouquet is so funny in the first place. 

Myra must take his expression as one of pride or contentment because she kisses his cheek after locking the door behind her. He nearly winces. 

The drive goes about as well as it always does - Myra talks at length about her day working in HR for a cybersecurity company. Sometimes, very occasionally, she’ll have a story about some sort of HR-related disaster that’s legitimately entertaining (whether it be lighthearted or dire), but the opinions she peppers into the story always make his skin crawl. 

She’s not _exactly_ like Sonia (an argument he’s made to Bill, Mike, and Beverly more times than he can count), but the parallels Eddie actually admits to are staggering. Sonia always made her thoughts on ‘deviants’ heard, and her idea of deviants usually fell under two categories: a) people who didn’t fit a very specific Christian standard of living, and b) children who had the nerve to claim any sort of personhood outside of their parents. Myra isn’t _quite_ as bigoted as Sonia, but Eddie sees the way she averts her eyes when they’re on Halsted, passing through Boystown, and two women are holding hands. Or how she’s always a little more eager to jump on her queer coworkers for workplace harassment or indecency, even if she tries to hide behind a facade of good intentions.

As he pulls into the parking lot of _Osteria Langhe_ , a restaurant they (Myra) picked because of its “serious appreciation of locally-sourced fresh meats and produce” cited on their website. Nevermind, of course, that it was insanely expensive, and she operated on old ideologies dictating that he _had_ to pay despite Myra making far more money per year. 

The movement from the car to the restaurant to their table goes by in a blur. The rustic interior design and soft lighting is all lost on Eddie as his mind is somewhere else, fixating on broad shoulders and a stubbled jaw, a nearly-nasally voice coming up with more nicknames in 20 minutes than Eddie’s ever had in his life. He wonders what kind of music Richie listens to, what his favorite color might be (he wears such fucking busy patterns that it’s impossible to tell), what kind of movies he’d want to go see…

“Eddie, are you even listening?” Myra’s words cut his train of thought short, forcibly dragging him back to the present, where they sat across from each other in a stuffy Italian restaurant. He doesn’t even remember ordering wine, but it’s there, and Myra’s glass is filled high despite how much she loves to rag on him for having the occasional bit of whisky before bed.

“I uh- no. No, I spaced out a bit,” he admits, and it’s not a lie, so he doesn’t understand why he feels so bad when he says it.

Myra’s lips curl downward into a grimace behind her glass as she sips her overpriced wine. “I was _saying_ ,” she lets out a big, frankly over-dramatic sigh, “is that we’ve been together almost eight months, now. I was thinking it’s about time that we meet each other’s parents, right?”

She phrases it like a question, but as she said, they’ve been at this for eight months, so Eddie knows it’s actually an order. He lets out a soft ‘hm,’ neither in confirmation or disapproval, as he usually does whenever Myra tells him what to do. Every time he does it, he hears Mike’s gentle scolding in the back of his mind, saying, ‘ _Eddie, that isn’t healthy. Bill and I would never talk to each other like that.’_ And then, even quieter, Bev’s voice, ‘ _I know you don’t want to hear it, dear, but doesn’t all of this feel...familiar?’_

And Mike is right. Bev is right. Eddie _knows_ they're right, and has known for a while. He’s tried to break things off in the past, but Myra was always able to sense it from a mile away and would bust out the waterworks before he could even suggest the idea. And Eddie always folded because he always talked loud, and she’d always accuse him of yelling at her, even when he was just trying to get his words out over the sound of her wailing.

Maybe he did yell. He isn’t even sure anymore. 

The only reason he’s stuck it out this long is because, at least up until recently, he was sure it was what he was meant to do. Get a job, date a ‘nice’ girl, settle down, get married, have kids, and then raise those kids and die. His father died when he was young, and Sonia’s iron-fist ruling made it impossible to date in high school - he even had to lie when he went to go hang out with Bev, and the two of them were never even together. Eddie had no other image of what his life could or should be, so he was happy with the generic template.

Or he _thought_ he was happy.

Now, sitting in this fancy restaurant that preys on materialistic sensibilities, across from a woman whose every word only seems to irk him as she suggests - no - _demands_ that they meet each other’s parents despite _knowing_ how much Eddie hates speaking to Sonia… Eddie isn’t so sure he gives a fuck about keeping his life structured anymore. Not if it means dealing with this forever.

“...so I was thinking we could drive down to Cleveland on Saturday and- Eddie-bear? Is something wro-”

“We need to break up,” he blurts out. It rockets out into the ether with more force than he expects. 

It makes Myra wince. Her expression drops. Eddie closes his eyes and braces himself for waterworks. He braces himself, but the first broken sob never comes. Just as he cracks an eye open to see if he’s accidentally broken her, he’s hit with a cold, furious splash of wine to the face. Myra is standing with her now-empty glass in hand looking absolutely livid, but to his utmost relief, there are no tears. The beginnings of some, definitely - her face is getting red and splotchy, eyes misty - but it seems she doesn’t want to let herself cry in front of strangers, so she just storms off.

Eddie immediately decides that he can live with that. Maybe he even had it coming. What truly amazes him is that, despite the very theatrical display, he hardly even notices the eyes of the restaurant on him. He actually _smiles_ when the waiter comes over to ask if everything is alright, if he’d like to wrap up for the evening, to which Eddie replies that he would, but he’d also like a plate of spaghetti to-go. The waiter gives him a funny look, but Eddie pays it no mind.

Myra is already gone by the time he’s outside with a black styrofoam box of warm food in hand. Eddie assumes she likely called an Uber. He places the box into the passenger seat of his car, starts the engine, and drives back home in comfortable silence. 

At nearly 9:30 on a Friday, so traffic is moderate-to-shitty pending on which area you’re in. Eddie lives in a small one-bedroom apartment in Logan Square - a neighborhood on the north side of the city, known for being one of the more ‘hip’ and gentrified parts of town, generally sought after by people in their 20s, or people trying to fuck people in their 20s. Driving in the area on weekends is hell, but Eddie doesn’t mind parking a few blocks away and walking to avoid the hassle of finding any spots near his own home. 

In his apartment, Eddie kicks off his dress shoes at the door and pulls his wine-stained shirt over his head, tossing it to an unknown corner in the dark. Mr. Jingles jumps down silently from the couch to nuzzle at Eddie’s ankles, and Eddie scoops him up with one arm and rubs his tummy with his other hand. He’s a rescue - a siamese missing his front leg. He’s rambunctious and never lets a missing limb stop him from jumping on top of the fridge and getting into the kitchen cabinets. 

Eddie got him right out of high school. Well, more accurately, Bev got him _for_ Eddie right out of high school, and said that if Eddie was going to insist on living alone, he should at least have a little friend to keep him company. 

Bev always looks out for him in little ways like that; she tosses him tools to take care of himself more efficiently, but never forces them upon him, and never tells him that her way is the only one. A true friend, she’d never just tell Eddie what he wants to hear, but still knows when she should step back and let him learn a lesson himself. She _lets_ him fall on his ass when the time calls for it - something Sonia would’ve never allowed. He loves Beverly for that. Maybe that’s why she’s the first one he decides to call in the wake of his break-up.

Eddie keeps the lights off and flops backwards onto his couch. Mr. Jingles curls up on his stomach as he scrolls through his contacts and calls Bev. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, Eddie. What’s up?” She sounds happy. Eddie can hear voices and music behind her.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry. Are you at a party? I can call tomorrow if it’s not a good time-”

“No, no, you’re fine, sweetie,” she coos, and the sound of music gets more and more distant until it’s gone completely. “I wanted to step outside for a smoke anyway. What’s going on?”

“I broke up with Myra.”

He has to hold the phone away from his ear as Bev lets out a loud, glass-shattering ‘WHOO!’ into the speaker. Mr. Jingles jumps in surprise on Eddie’s stomach, and his claws jut out momentarily, poking at his abdomen. Eddie bites back a sharp hiss of pain.

“You done?” his tone is purposefully flat despite the pleased smile he wears. He hears the click of her lighter, followed by the sharp inhale of smoke. He can almost picture her with the cigarette - American Spirits, because of course they are - leaning against the brick wall of some party on the east side, near the lake.

“Give me one more?” She asks hopefully. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, and lets out a loud sigh of resignation as he holds the phone away from his ear again. Mr. Jingles trills at the sound, annoyed, and hops off Eddie’s stomach.

“Okay, _now_ I’m done,” Beverly laughs. “I’m so proud of you, Eddie! What happened, exactly?”

“I did it while we were out on a date,” he admits sheepishly. He expects Bev to chew him out, but instead, she just snorts like she always does when a joke takes her off guard. “Yeah, I know. It just happened. I mean, I was already _thinking_ about it-”

“Uh, yeah, man. I _know_.”

“Shut up!” Eddie laughs. “Anyway, I was already thinking about it, but it wasn’t my _plan_ . But we were at dinner, and she started talking about meeting each other’s _parents_ -”

Bev gasps, “But you told her about Sonia! Like, everything about Sonia,” there’s another distinct sound of her taking a drag from her cigarette, then speaking again on the exhale, “And she didn’t just mean her parents?”

“Nope,” Eddie answers, popping the ‘p.’

“Jesus…”

“You’re tellin’ me, dude. So she’s going on about us meeting each other’s parents and then says she wants me to meet hers, like, _this weekend_ with no prior warning, and I just… said it. I didn’t even give an explanation, which, in retrospect, was kinda shitty. It’s likely why she threw her wine on me.”

“She _didn’t_!”

“She _did_ ,” Eddie chuckles. God, they sound ridiculous. It’s fantastic. Eddie kicks his feet, which are dangling off the side of the couch, and yelps in surprise when a curious set of paws grab at his foot. “Gah!”

“You okay?”

Eddie lets his left arm hang off the side of the couch and drums against the floor with his fingers. Catherine unhands his foot to come and inspect the sound, and he runs his hand along her back once she’s within range. “I’m fine. It’s dark and Catherine startled me.”

“Are you sitting in the dark?” It’s amazing, Eddie thinks, how after years of friendship, he can see exactly what Bev’s face looks like at that moment without looking at her literally. An eyebrow raised in curiosity while her voice breathes concern, red-painted lips pressed in a soft line and eyes assessing quietly for any signs to tell her whether this is something actually worth worrying about. Beverly always collects plenty of data before she makes a move, unlike Myra and Sonia, who reacted quickly and emotionally with little regard for the potential fallout so long as the end result was to their liking.

“‘M lazy,” Eddie yawns and continues to pet Catherine, who just walks back and forth beneath his hand, rubbing upward into it and doing most of the work for him.

“A big day of breaking up with your girlfriend will do that,” Bev snickers. “Why don’t you get some rest, dear? Send me your work schedule, and you, me, Mike, and Bill can go out to celebrate later this week.”

“‘Kay. Thanks, Bev. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Eddie. G’night!” 

End of call. Eddie gently tosses his cell phone onto the coffee table, then scoops up Catherine from the floor onto the couch. She walks over his chest, completely disinterested in laying on Eddie’s stomach, and instead curls around his head. 

Eddie got Catherine more recently. She’s sweet and quiet, almost regal in a way. She was Mike’s, but then Mike moved in with Bill, and Bill’s landlord didn’t allow cats ( _‘Who the hell doesn’t allow cats?’ Eddie had asked._ ‘Bill’s landlord, apparently,’ Mike answered, exasperated), so she’s staying indefinitely with Eddie until Mike and Bill find somewhere new. It’s been nearly a year now, though, and Eddie isn’t sure he’ll be able to give her back when the time comes.

Mr. Jingles comes back around and jumps up onto the arm of the couch, looking over Catherine and Eddie’s head. Eddie reaches a hand up to scratch behind his ear, and Mr. Jingles purrs _loudly_. It’s soothing white noise that makes Eddie’s eyelids droop. 

He falls asleep wondering if Richie is a fan of cats, too.

Eddie wakes up around 6 AM the next morning. Sunlight filters through the blinds and shines directly over his closed eye. He groans and turns over onto his side for a couple moments in hopes of falling back to sleep. 

Eddie’s never been able to remember his dreams. When he had nightmares as a child, the most he’d remember would be the last couple seconds before he awoke, and even that image faded quickly. This morning is no different. Not in that sense, anyway. Eddie doesn’t know what he dreamt about _exactly_ , but he _does_ know he feels an overwhelming urge to get dressed and use his day off from work to visit the flower shop again, to talk to Richie and ask all the questions that have been bouncing around in his head since yesterday.

Then Catherine pounces on Eddie’s side, surprising and knocking the air out of him, and he decides that it’s a terrible, silly idea that would absolutely make him look like a complete weirdo. The bouquet thing was funny and spontaneous. Coming in a second day in a row just to go, ‘Hey, I couldn’t stop thinking about you - so much so that it may or may not have led to me breaking up with my girlfriend! Coffee?’ would just be creepy. 

He ends up going anyway. 

Of course, he justifies it by running errands first - goes out of his way to visit the Trader Joe’s in Wicker Park instead of his own neighborhood, and then what do you know! He’s so close to the shop _anyway_ that he might as well pop in and say hello, right? Richie would get a kick out of hearing about the aftermath of the flowers, and it’d be totally organic and okay.

The little bell on the door chimes as Eddie steps in from the sweltering heat, one hand holding a bounty of snacks from Trader Joe’s, and he makes a b-line for the counter.

Instead of Richie, a short blonde man is behind the counter. He looks older, maybe forty-something, and wears the same type of brown apron Richie had on the day prior, and has round wire-rimmed glasses. His hair looks golden and soft - like clouds, Eddie thinks - and his eyes crinkle into soft creasants when he sees Eddie enter. Even though he’s most definitely _not_ Richie, he radiates a similar warm energy that makes Eddie feel very _seen_ , makes his face feel hot as he walks up to the counter, now nervous.

“Morning! How can I help you?” the blonde man asks. His voice is soft and sweet like honey.

“I-I uh…” Eddie’s mind goes blank. _You can’t just walk into a place of business and ask when a different employee will be there!_ He blanches remembering the stories Myra and Bev both told about men creeping, asking invasive questions about when they’d be off of work, where they’d be going. 

Just because Richie’s a guy doesn’t make it any less creepy, Eddie rationalizes, then begins to sweat. Fuck. The blonde man - his nametag says Leland - is still looking at him expectantly. He cocks a brow curiously, and Eddie’s stomach drops when he realizes he’s just been standing there in total silence, making him look like an even bigger weirdo.

“Just this!” he says too quickly, picking a random, small succulent that sits on a display next to the counter. Eddie winces when he sets it down on the wood too hard, and it makes a thudding sound that’s far too large for such a little plant. 

Nevertheless, the little cactus looks fine, and Leland looks unbothered. He just rings up the succulent - a small bulb of a thing with a pink flower on top, settled in a white pot - and Eddie pays without making eye contact, then shuffles quickly out of the shop, cursing quietly at himself under his breath.

* * *

Richie descends the stairs of his apartment nestled above _Take It or Leaf It_ , book bag slung over one shoulder, the contents jostling as he hops down the last three stairs and hits the ground hard with a soft ‘oof!’ It’s still just as muggy outside as it had been on Friday, but the clouds have completely blocked out the sun, which means the rain is due to give the city a much needed cooldown by nightfall at the latest.  
  
Already knowing the consequences, Richie peaks into the shop and laughs when Leland immediately shoots him a sharp glare.

“I’m just saying hi! Can’t a man come say hi?” Richie holds his hands up defensively.

“Not when that man is going to say hi and then wander into the backroom to start working overtime,” Leland’s eyes narrow. Despite his cute exterior, Leland can be terrifying when the time calls for it. 

“I’ve told you a million times, man: if I help out on a day I’m not scheduled, just don’t pay me. I’m _offering_ help!”

“I’m with the kid!” Al, Leland’s husband, calls from the back room. “Exploit free labor!”

“Yeah! See? Al gets it!” Richie grins from ear-to-ear. 

“God Almighty… There’s a reason I don’t schedule you two together,” Leland sighs, but his smile gives away his not-so-secret fondness for both Richie and his husband’s antics. “Richie, go have fun with your friends. And tell Stan and Patty I said hello, will you?”

“Can do, boss man!” Richie gives a little two fingered salute, then turns on his heel to leave. Just as he pulls the door and the bell chimes, Leland calls after him once more.

“Wait!”

“Make up your mind, man-”

“Oh, hush,” Leland chuckles. “That boy you were talking about - what did he look like?” The question to Richie, who didn’t just see Eddie storm back in and nervously buy a succulent, seems out of place.

“Give us the PG version, please!” Al calls from the back room. “I already got off this morning - not lookin’ for a round two.”

 _“Alfred!”_ Leland’s cheeks are red. It’s nothing Richie hasn’t heard before - eight years is a long time. Richie doesn’t even blink at the thought of his bosses getting it on (at most, he thinks ‘ _Good for them’_ ). But he also realizes that Leland may _always_ see him as a kid, even as he somehow gets bigger at 25 - not taller, but _wider_ \- so as it is, Al will always delight in embarrassing his husband by being crass anyway.

Al cackles triumphantly, unseen.

Richie hoists his bag up on his shoulder with a soft grunt - carrying around a PS4 in the middle of summer isn’t fun, but someone has to do it if Patty’s ever going to finish playing God of War. 

Recalling an image of Eddie isn’t difficult; against his better efforts, Eddie’s been the only thing playing in Richie’s mind on a loop since the previous night. No matter how many times Richie told himself that Eddie was spoken for, a little part of him held onto that hope that something might change in his favor.

“He’s short - like your height,” Leland rolls his eyes at that. “Dark hair, _big_ eyes, mayor of Dimple City, smells like cars, like, all the time, apparently; he’s really _loud_ , but not in an abrasive way? Like, it’s kinda hot for some reas-”

“Okay, okay, I get your point: he’s very handsome,” Leland snorts as he rearranges the succulents to fill in the gap left by the one Eddie had just purchased. “So you really think those flowers were for his girlfriend?”

Richie had regaled the entire tale of the peculiar bouquet to his group chats with both Al and Leland, and Stan, Patty, and Ben as soon as he’d finished closing up shop on Friday. Originally, it had started out as a story about how insane the request was - how absolutely out of left field it had been, and how it was the only surprising thing to happen in the tiny flower shop in the whole 8 years he’d worked there. 

But in his retellings, somewhere between the part where Eddie asked (demanded) the flowers and when he took a seat at the chair in the back room to continue talking with Richie, the story went from a funny anecdote to ameteur poetry hour, and Richie had to deal with Stan’s passive-aggressive cautionary texts for the rest of the night after that.

The thing is, Richie’s always been a romantic. Yes, he can be crass. Yes, he can be downright gross, and sometimes, he can just be inconsiderate without forethought. But at his core, he knows himself as a man with a lot of love to give, placed inside of a vessel that’s hard for others to accept the love from. 

So when Leland asks that - ‘ _do you_ **_really_ ** _think…’ -_ as if there’s a glimmer of hope to cling to, Richie is torn. His innate self-esteem issues tell him to cast the idea aside, but the part of him yearning for something greater clings to the possibility like a lifeline that’ll justify all his non-stop fantasies about wrapping his arms around that small, firm, tanned frame and peppering Eddie’s freckles with kisses.

“Yeah, Lee, they were,” Richie sighs, then turns on his heel to leave before his boss can get another word in edgewise.

* * *

As he’d promised, Eddie sends his work schedule to Beverly, and she handles the coordination of their outing to celebrate Eddie’s newfound bachelorhood. His next opening isn’t until the following Saturday night, of course, which is torture for Eddie throughout the week, when it’s only him, the sound of clanging metal and his own intrusive thoughts.

Over the course of his work week, Eddie’s thoughts - pondering? _Fantasies?_ \- about Richie only heighten in intensity and detail. 

It all started as passing, harmless whimsy: would Richie like Catherine and Mr. Jingles? What other busy-print shirts did he own? Were they all flower themed? Did he perpetually smell of flowers in the same way Eddie smelt of his garage? 

Then the thoughts became more… intimate. Personal. Physical. He’d be manning the front office phone while Dottie was on her break, and midway through a call, he’d space completely, just entranced by the thought of how _big_ Richie is - how his shoulders hunch downward from years of poor sitting habits, but how it only makes thinking about his height more exciting because - _fuck -_ if Richie is that tall while slouching, he’s a goddamn _giant_ standing upright. Anytime that thought comes through, it makes Eddie shiver.

He thinks about Richie’s hands - _god, those fucking hands_ \- and how they look like they can wrap around Eddie’s whole midsection, or even hook under his thighs and pick him up, press him against the wall and--

And that’s the point where Eddie stops himself short all throughout the week. He runs laps, he drinks tea, and tries (and fails) meditation, and like most holistic remedies, they work for about as long as Eddie can drum up with willpower to believe they’re actually helpful. When all else fails, he throws himself further into his work and stays later than he needs to. The clang of metal and the thick scent of machinery clouds his senses, and while it’s only truly effective about half of the time, it’s better than nothing. Eddie grabs comfort in the form of familiarity in any place he can find it.

Saturday feels like a blessing when it rolls around again. Bev, Bill, and Mike take Eddie out as promised.

Kitschy name aside, Whisky Business is actually a nice place. It’s a narrow but deep building, and their table is reserved on the rooftop patio, where the multi-colored lights make Eddie and his friends glow in halos of blue, purple, and red as the sun finally sets completely. 

“I didn’t even know you could _make_ reservations for a bar,” Eddie observes. He sips his vodka-cranberry gingerly; he knows himself - fast-drinking Eddie is not a man who makes good decisions.

“Technically we made reservations for the show,” Mike and Bill split an obnoxiously large and pink daiquiri. It looks cute, but both Eddie and Bev know it’s Mike’s underhanded way of making sure Bill doesn’t overdo it and drink too much. Drunk Bill is entertaining, but best kept behind closed doors for the sanctity of the public. 

“They have comedy shows here during the summer,” Bill explains further as he sees Eddie’s brow raise quizzically. 

Before Eddie can argue that he’s not even _into_ stand-up comedy, Bev returns to their table with what appears to be a Sex on the Beach, which can only mean…

“You were hitting on the bartender, weren’t you?” Eddie deadpans before she even sits down completely.

Bev brings a hand up, as if clutching her pearls, aghast, “Why, Eddie darling, what in the world would make you say something like that?”

He says nothing, only looks down at her drink and then back to her eyes. He crosses his arms. Bill and Mike peak over the backs of their seats and then nod to each other in a silent agreement. “He _is_ pretty attractive,” Mike concedes.

“What’s his name?” Bill presses, now leaning over the table with interest.

Bev pulls out her phone triumphantly, typing in her passcode with lightning speed and then holding it out to show off the new contact listing, which says ‘Ben’ with several fire emojis after it. Eddie rolls his eyes as a reflex, but inwardly, he’s undoubtedly impressed. 

Beverly’s always moved through life with an air of confidence he can only dream of possessing. He’s made progress, no doubt, in his years since he left the enclosure Sonia built for him throughout his childhood, but Eddie knows it’ll take him a lifetime to ever be as courageous in his convictions as Bev.

Looking back towards the bar, Eddie also can’t deny that Ben is cute. He’s tall - _really_ tall - and his eyes practically disappear when he smiles. He looks both strong and soft, and everything about him - from his golden brown hair to his sweet laugh that carries from the bar to their table whenever the music is low enough - just exudes literal sunshine. 

Without even knowing the guy, Eddie hopes that things work out well between him and Bev, that they go beyond more than just a couple dates. There’s very few people Eddie could look at and call ‘spouse material,’ but this guy definitely fits the bill. 

And that thought, Eddie decides, is actually pretty funny. He’s heard the old romantic cliche about seeing someone across a room and picturing your lives together, but never had he considered picturing his _best friend’s_ very separate life with some dude working at a bar. 

Bev stashes her phone back in her purse, then turns her full attention to Eddie with a mischievous glint in her eye. “So,” she starts and takes a long sip from her sunset-colored drink. “Spill. Details. The whole thing. What happened?”

“What?” Eddie curls in on himself and holds his drink like it’s a barricade between himself and the others. Bill, Bev, and Mike all stare at him expectantly. “I told you guys already. We went on our shitty weekly date, she started talking about parent stuff, and I dumped her in the restaurant. Story done.”

“You dumped her in the restaurant _and_ she threw wine on you,” Bill corrects him. Mike chuckles. 

“Yeah, yeah, that too,” Eddie wants to be bitter, but he ends up laughing too. “But there you go - my point exactly: you already know the whole story.”

“Oh, _come on,_ ” Bev insists, not at all convinced. “This has been months in the making! There has to have been more!”

Just as Eddie readies his too-defensive retort, the music slowly fades out. A woman with a deep, commanding voice walks up to the small stage at the corner of the patio, raised for all the attendees to see. Everyone claps, and Eddie joins.

She introduces herself as Alex, the MC for the evening, and has a small opening set of her own - nothing long, just a couple minutes of jokes - and Eddie’s surprised to find himself laughing along with the crowd. He was so certain that he actually hated stand-up, but the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that maybe he never gave it a fighting chance before. 

The last stand-up special Eddie remembers watching was some 30-minute thing on Comedy Central, playing gratingly in the background at Mike’s place (his dad had a hearing problem he wouldn’t admit to until after they graduated high school, so all the years prior were filled with the television cranked way too loud, practically shaking the walls of the old suburban house while they tried to finish their homework). The jokes in that one had been dated and cringe-worthy and just not at all Eddie’s cup of tea; like most things in Eddie’s life, he made a generalizing snap decision about the genre as a whole that carried over into his adulthood.

Just how many things was he going to have to reassess about himself? Richie’s already been living in his mind rent-free for a week, and now he’s going to have to restructure his Netflix algorithm, too? _Jesus Christ…_ Eddie thinks despite his good time.

There’s six comedians in the show total (including Alex). The other four are hit or miss, but Eddie and his friends keep the drinks coming, which substantially lowers their threshold for what’s funny. By the time Alex steps back up to the stage to bring up the last comedian, Eddie’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s giggling as Mike and Bill bicker benignly about whether or not Bill is cut off for the evening after he swallowed down more than half of their last daiquiri by himself. 

“Alright, guys. You’ve been a fantastic crowd! Our closer for this evening is a regular performer and a very good friend of mine - give it up for your favorite Trashmouth: Richie Tozier!” Alex’s voice booms over the distant chattering conversations among the crowd, all of which quiet and turn to thunderous cheering as Alex pats Richie’s back and hands off the mic.

Eddie is completely frozen. On the elevated platform, Richie is even bigger than usual. His smile is big and familiar to Eddie, makes his stomach flip and turn in ways he didn’t know it could. He’s wearing a shirt with lizards on it, and it should be ugly - it should be _so_ ugly - but on Richie, it looks impeccable, stretching perfectly over his insanely wide shoulders and highlighting his personality in a way that’s just kind of perfect, like you know exactly what you’re getting into just by looking at his attire. 

Their table is dead center, directly across from the stage. Richie’s bright blue eyes lock with Eddie’s nervous brown ones. He smirks. Eddie wants to curl up under the table and die.

Richie starts out with the usual: ‘ _How are y’all doing tonight?’_ , some light crowd work - it didn’t take long for Eddie to pick up on the formula all comedians apparently pull from. For a moment, he even thinks he might be able to handle this. Then Richie keeps talking.

"... So do you guys believe in love at first sight?” he asks the crowd. He’s long since pulled his gaze from Eddie specifically, but the way Richie’s smile widens just a bit more makes Eddie feel like they’re still staring right at each other anyway. “Yeah, I know. Heavy as fuck for a comedy show, but bare with me, it's gets good fast.”

Oh, fuck.

“So when I'm not fanning my own ego up here by regaling the adventures of my massive dong,” Bev and Bill both snort at the same time. “I work as a florist - a flower man, for all the drunks out there - I see you. I hear you. You're valid, you lovely, stumbling fucks.” That earns a resounding cheer from the crowd as a whole. Bev raises her own drink and whoops while Eddie shrinks into his chair.

Richie continues. “So the other day, this guy walks into the shop looking like someone shoved an entire beehive up his ass. Like he's _furious_ . And he slams a twenty on the counter and goes ‘ _HOW DO I SAY 'FUCK YOU' IN FLOWER?_ ’” 

Richie’s impersonation of Eddie is frighteningly good. Bill and Bev don’t pick up on it, but Mike’s eyebrows raise and he shoots Eddie a curious look. _This is a nightmare_ , Eddie rationalizes in a panic. _This is a nightmare. This can’t actually be happening right now._

“...and like, immediately, I’m fucking interested. Nevermind the fact that this guy comes in with gelled hair, a white t-shirt, and blue jeans, smelling like motor oil - the fucking epitome of masculinity...”

It’s Bev’s turn to look at Eddie. It’s even worse because Bev grins like the fucking Cheshire Cat and props her chin up on her hand, teasing, “So that was the _whole story_ , huh~?”

“I'm serious! It's like someone googled 'Top 10 Men Who Aren’t James Dean But Fucking _Could_ Be,' and then just plucked him off the webpage and into reality. He's a fucking smokeshow. And he wants 'fuck you' flowers. Like, I'm pretty sure I met the one."

There’s a mixture of laughter and affectionate ‘awws’ from the crowd. Eddie thinks he might suffer from heat stroke as his face and the tips of his ears burn red-hot. 

Bill seems to be the only one who hasn’t caught onto the full scope of the situation, and for that, he’s Eddie’s new favorite friend.

"... yeah, yeah - I'm getting your hopes up with this one. I'd LOVE to say the story ends with me getting his number, or us making passionate love on top of the register, but as he's leaving, the guy lets it slip that he's late for a date with his girlfriend-”

The crowd ‘awws’ again, this time in disappointment. Bev ‘awws’ with them, but much louder, and while staring directly at Eddie. She’s been demoted to his least favorite friend.

Richie just cackles. “Oh? You think _you’re_ sad? I'm the one who's gonna be eating ice cream and jerking off alone after this!” The self-deprecating humor brings everyone’s spirits back up. “But no worries. If those fuck-you flowers were for his girlfriend, maybe my life is actually turning into a Hallmark romcom, and he'll realize i was The One all along, too.” 

For the second time since he started his set, Richie looks directly at Eddie and - oh _god_ \- he winks.

“...or not. Who fuckin' knows! Anyway, that's my time folks. Have a good night!"

Under the cover of the crowds' uproarious applause, Eddie slips away from the table and makes a b-line for the bathroom. Over the speakers playing in the bathroom, he hears Alex come back up to the mic and close out the show officially, and then the music from earlier starts back up once again. Eddie splashes his face with water, then has to vacate quickly as the swarm of showgoers take the show’s end as their cue to crowd the bathrooms as well. 

He shoves past them and barrels down the stairs to the bar’s main level, which has also gotten even busier. The throngs of people and bumping music would normally be something of an annoyance to him, but at this juncture, Eddie appreciates the cover it all provides. 

Eddie isn’t worried about tracking down Bev, Bill, or Mike; they’d already agreed to go to Cheesie’s next door to fill up on greasy food after their night of drinking (what goes better with drinking than a big ass grilled cheese sandwich and some ski ball?). Even though it’s still a warm summer night outside, it’s not nearly as stuffy, and Eddie breathes in the fresh air, then exhales a heavy sigh as his back hits the brick wall behind him. There are a couple circles of smokers, but they’re distant enough that the nicotine fog isn’t a bother. He buries his face in his hands and shakes his head. 

_Okay_ , he thinks. _Not a dream. Not a dream at all. Richie just performed an entire set about how much he’s been thinking about Eddie, too, and none of it is just in Eddie’s head. Fuck._

“Enjoy the show?” he hears someone ask following the sound of their exit from the bar. When he doesn’t hear a response, Eddie realizes he was the one the question was posed to and looks up.

Richie pulls a box of Marlboro Reds from his jacket pocket and pulls out the last two cigarettes. One of them is flipped the other way, and Eddie recalls a vague high school memory of Beverly explaining the concept of ‘flipping a lucky’ when you first open a pack of cigarettes. Richie brings the unflipped cigarette’s filter to his lips, then holds the other - the lucky - out to Eddie. He’s not a smoker, but just due to the sentiment alone, Eddie accepts. Richie lights Eddie’s first, then his own, and exhales.

“Your friends seem nice,” Richie continues, unperturbed by the fact that Eddie didn’t answer his question, and is instead staring up at him dumbly as they both lean against the outside wall of the bar. The cherry on the end of his cigarette burns, untouched, and Richie chuckles. “You gonna smoke that or look at it, buddy?”

Eddie flushes and brings it to his lips, inhales too quickly and too deeply, then coughs hard. Richie laughs.

“Not a smoker?”

“No…” Eddie groans. The taste is… harsh. Aggressive, even. It’s not the first time Eddie’s tried smoking, but Bev’s cigarettes were never this intense. “What the fuck is wrong with these?”

“Nothing wrong with ‘em,” Richie chirps, seeming pleased. He pulls out the empty pack from his pocket and shows it to Eddie, as if the sight alone is supposed to give him an explanation. In response to Eddie’s blank stare, Richie elaborates, “Reds. They’re called ‘cowboy killers.’ _Notoriously_ strong.”

“Are you trying to die quicker or something?” Eddie quips, but takes another drag anyway. This time, it’s much more controlled. He doesn’t cough. Doesn’t love it, either, but at least he doesn’t cough.

Richie shrugs his broad shoulders and flicks the spare ash onto the sidewalk. “Nah. They were just the first ones I ever started smoking. I hardly ever pick these up anymore - they’re just nice to the occasional episode of nostalgia, ya know?” Eddie watches with interest as Richie blows smoke out of his nostrils, looking like some kind of beast when he does it. Then his lips upturn into the same mischievous smile Bev wore earlier, and Eddie feels like prey. “If you don’t smoke, why’d you take it?”

 _Well, shit_. “You gave me your lucky,” Eddie mumbles and looks away. “I didn’t wanna be rude.”

To his overwhelming surprise, Richie doesn’t laugh at him. Eddie looks up, and Richie’s looking up at the sky, contemplative. The next question he asks, especially in the wake of that very self-revealing stand-up act, hits Eddie like a ton of bricks. “So how’d your girl like the flowers?”

Eddie sighs out a puff of smoke. “She’s uh… not my girl anymore. We broke up.”

“Oh, really?” Richie tries and fails to hide his delight. “So I guess that means they worked then?”

“Huh?”

“The fuck-you flowers? I assume that was the intended outcome?” Richie finishes his cigarette much faster than Eddie and puts out the cherry on the side of the building, then tosses it into a trashcan just a few paces away. Eddie hates how much the conscientious move appeals to his own sensibilities. “Unless you’ve got some _weird_ fuckin’ mating rituals I haven’t heard of?”

“N-no! No!” Eddie answers too quickly. “No, the flowers were… yeah, that’s what they were for. I mean, kinda. I didn’t really mean for it to go the way it did. I _wanted_ to break up with her - obviously - but it wasn’t as... eloquent as I would’ve liked.”

“Well, congrats anyway,” Richie nudges Eddie’s arm with his elbow as he buries his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket ( _Why the hell is he wearing a leather jacket in the middle of summer?)._ “Glad I could help.”

 _‘Glad I could help.’_ Eddie feels the tips of his ears getting hot again as he plays back Richie’s act in his head on a loop. 

_‘Do you guys believe in love at first sight?’_

_‘He’s a smokeshow.’_

_‘I’m pretty sure I met the one.’_

Then Eddie remembers Bev, holding her phone out triumphantly to show their table the newly acquired number he got from Ben. He remembers seeing Ben and immediately knowing how good he’d be for her, how easy it was to see their life together. Eddie looks back up at Richie and holds his hand out with a sudden demand. “Give me your phone.”

“Huh?” Richie blinks.

“Give. Me. Your. Phone,” Eddie repeats again sharply. He keeps his eyes down and just accepts that the flush on his cheeks isn’t going anywhere. Richie pulls it from his pocket far too slow and places it tentatively in Eddie’s outstretched hand, which snatches the device away as soon as its able. 

He swipes upward, then squints when the phone simply unlocks.

“You don’t have a password or anything?” he asks incredulously.

“I watch porn on my laptop, not my phone,” Richie shrugs, as if that answer isn’t a big deal and isn’t causing a whole new slew of images to form in Eddie’s mind. He shoves them aside and focuses on finding the contacts app, then enters his own information hastily and hands it back to Richie. 

“Here,” he shoves the phone back into Richie’s hands, then mimics Richie in putting out his cigarette and tossing it in the bin. Richie looks down at his phone dumbfoundedly, eyes wide in disbelief. It’s deeply flattering. Not even Myra was that excited when Eddie had first asked her out.

“Good show, then?” Richie asks with a lopsided grin.

“Yeah,” Eddie smiles in return. “Nice flowers, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come kick it with us on twitter! [@kaspbrakpolos](https://twitter.com/kaspbrakpolos) and [@etherealeds](https://twitter.com/etherealeds)


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